Monday, December 24, 2018

Where Will You Find Me?


Where will you find me as years go by?
     Will you think to look in the shadow
      of a mystical mountain?
Named and renamed for the footprints
     and feathers of those who came first,
Or in the pastures that
       silver seed sustains.
Will I be among the laughing and smiling,
     breathing in warm afternoons
     or hidden among new family
  along a ravaged coastline?
Where will you find me as years go by?
     amid the vanguard dazed
by natural disaster or within the warm
     wind that pushes healing and implodes
the will of ancestors.
Will I be hidden and forever lost,
     like the poems that weave through
     my leaking imagination at night.
Where will you find me?
     Or rather,
Will you find me
                       as years go by?

Wednesday, December 12, 2018

Name It

I learned about two types of lava from a Hawaiian when visiting the Islands about 30 years ago.  He said that there are two words used to describe the two types.  "Ah Ah" is used when mentioning the sharp rocks you walk over with your bare feet.  "Pa hoe Hoe" is the term for the smooth lava that hardens like glass.  The words are onomatopoetic. That is, they sound like what they describe. When people walk over the rough lava they constantly exclaim "Ah Ah" because it hurts to walk on those blunt, jagged surfaces.  On "Pa Hoe Hoe" they say nothing; they just walk.
This metaphor can be applied to people as well.  Take the last two presidents, which word slips off the tongue easier Obama or Trump?  Which word has an abrupt sound?
It's fun to make that comparison but what does it really mean?  Do we dare judge people by the sound of their name?  Hardly.  But might there be something more here?
Names do carry the baggage of connotation.  People who have dropped one name or reinvented themselves for a film or singing career would be the first to agree.  This is what fuels the American story.  From Gatz to Gatsby, to Madonna to Common, the name's the thing.
In my view it takes a special kind of person to change his/her name.  Numerous examples abound, and aside from those skirting the law or wishing a complete re-boot to their lives, most name changers seem to have a sense of self that leaves little room for low esteem.  At least that's the impression that people like Muhammad Ali and Madonna give.  This quality, I suppose is to be admired.  It's the calling card of an extraordinary persona.  But it must be backed up with true talent or intellect, or a skill set that supports that identity.

What if the trend were reversed?  What if people began to add on more names?  The interest now present in having a DNA analysis shows that people are increasingly interested in learning about their roots.  For every identity in our genetic make-up we could add a name.  For example, the folks who share a combination of European and Mid-Eastern or African heritage would have a couple of new palettes from which to choose.  Of course we'd have to do some serious research to make sure what we are borrowing from or newly adopted cultures makes sense and truly represents a homage to a culture with which we share a bond.
A caveat:  When tattoos became popular, many people inked themselves with characters from Chinese or Japanese or other alphabets that appeared aesthetic.  Unfortunately some of those folks were sold more than a tattoo.  Their bodies were giving off other messages because of inferior translations!  What was supposed to be taken as a message of peace or love for all mankind was actually a statement about one's low intelligence in one case.  Not the kind of message you want to broadcast.  But that's the price of inauthenticity.  Our names are gifts that were given to us.  Best not to return them.

Monday, December 10, 2018

A Foolish Wind

Some years ago I was part of a 4-man show about the life of Woody Guthrie.  I did spoken word selections from Woody's writings and a duo of musicians played his songs.  I'd punctuate the guitar music with harmonica occasionally as well.  Our 4th man was an old friend of Woody's named Ed Robbin.  Ed had the distinction of being the guy who first put Woody on the radio at station KFVD in Los Angeles.  A writer and activist, Ed had dabbled a bit in directing plays and drama workshops.  It was with that in mind that I once invited Ed to accompany me to a play one evening in San Francisco.  After the production concluded the director invited the audience to remain after and come down to the first few aisles and meet the cast and discuss the play.
Ed nodded that he's like to stay.  I'm purposely leaving out the name of the play and any of the cast because that's not what matters.  What matters is what Ed did and said.  After taking some questions, the director introduced the actors and then asked if there were any more questions or comments.  Ed raised his hand and was recognized.  He slowly stood up.  Here's the picture: Ed was about 75 then and had a full head of gray/silver hair.  He wore a seaman's cap and his sharp features were set off by his olive skin tone.  He looked like somebody.
"You're all very good," he said to the actors and the director.  "But the play doesn't say anything.  A play has got to say something.  This play doesn't say anything."
Then he nodded to me and we exited our theater.

I tell this story because it has helped me many times in teaching a play.  One of my favorite plays to teach was "Inherit the Wind," by Lee and?  The play, which centers around the famous Scopes
"Monkey Trial" is loaded with meaning.  Briefly, it's about change and the battle between those who believe in Creationism vs. those who argue in favor of Evolution.  Aside from the obvious religious issues present, the play cleverly dredges up many other types of faith and evolution.  That's where social change or even revolution come in.
At one point in the play, Henry Drummond (Clarence Darrow) is talking about the tradeoff that happens when we are in the middle of social change. He says:
     "Progress has never been a bargain. You have to pay for it.  Sometimes I think there is a man who sits behind a counter and says, "All right, you can have a telephone but you lose privacy and the charm of distance... you may conquer the air but the birds will lose their wonder and the clouds will smell of gasoline."
I'm reminded of this quote every time I think of the dilemma of the cell phone or the consequences we have inherited by our use and dependence of the automobile.
No wonder that living off the grid has become so popular these days.
"Inherit the Wind" is loaded with profound ideas that, if nothing else,  it makes people stop and think.  And then there is the origin of the title itself.  What it means to inherit the wind.  Actually the full quote there is:
                              He that troubles his own house shall inherit the wind, and the fool shall be servant to the wise of heart.
                        -Proverbs 11:29





Thursday, November 29, 2018

6:53 am

37 people encapsulated
     under a dusty blue sky
they comprise:
7 pairs of closed eyes
   5 energy drinks
      8 coffees,
         7 hidden in hoodies,
            14 pairs of ear buds,
               28 small, glowing screens,
                    12 backpacks
                         6 tote bags,
                            32 sneakers
                                 10 boots,
                                      2 umbrellas

                                      0 conversations


Tuesday, November 27, 2018

Give It Up

Today is "Giving Tuesday."  It's another in a long line of contrived commercial events that sprang from Black Friday and Cyber Monday.  Yet I, like many, seem more accepting of a day when people can choose a worthy charity or group and help raise funds for worthy causes.  The internet has been wildly successful at doing fundraising.
I should have known something was up with the amount of email that came in this morning.  Seems like every group I've ever given to and any dimly related group was smiling with hands out in my inbox today.  Am I complaining? Hardly.  Like many of my friends, in recent years I've stopped giving those obligatory holiday gifts and chosen to make donations to groups that I and we support.  It's doubly satisfying because not only do we eliminate the need to get in line at the post office or have the expense of using an overnight carrier, but we no longer have to spend time in crowded shopping malls or retail districts wondering if the shirt, or book, or game we picked out will be well received.  It's a win/win for all involved.

I have about a half a dozen to choose from this year.  My usual standbys are organizations like Dr.s Without Borders and Oxfam International because it seems as if their needs are on-going and that every year brings new famine or disease or a new set of refugees.  The past year also brings unforgettable video images from Syria to Yemen, the Mexican border to Indonesia.  Earthquakes, droughts, fires, and floods usually get a few bucks and in the current climate (pun intended) they are hardly unexpected.
But today I did something different.  I made a spontaneous donation to a former student's theater company.  It's a fledgling group that has had some real successes and reminds me that the theme of "Bread and Roses" is very much alive in these dark times. Quite simply the term refers to recognizing the need for art, beauty, and culture along with the need for life-sustaining resources.  There was another reason for my motivation to give a modest contribution to this group.  Aside from the fact that they are a dynamic, risk-taking theater company led by an equally talented director, it was a chance for me to give back to my student's passion.  I recall how he, like a few other students, went to bat for their teachers when we were threatened with everything from losing funding for our district to short-sighted curriculum decisions that might have forced us to stop teaching whole books in favor of scripted textbooks.  Not that we ever would, but when some of your students take the time to display their voices and writing skills in from of your school board, you don't forget.
My exuberance with combining gift-giving with supporting deserving causes is no doubt a result of aging.  Getting older is, in many ways, a consolidation of making things easier for yourself.  If that can be done while benefitting others, why not?

Saturday, November 17, 2018

Smoke in My Eyes

Maybe it was the masks.  People walking around with surgical masks over their mouths and noses do add a dystopic element to reality.  Sonoma county is usually noted for the quality of the wine it produces.  Wine that becomes exceptional because of the ideal growing conditions.  Lots of clean water and a very temperate climate.  But after spending a week in Northern California...a week breathing toxic air from the horrendous wildfires that now extend the fire season into winter, the reality we face is as topsy-turvey as ever.

As Bob Dylan asked during another dystopic time in our lives "..and you know something's happening, and you don't know what it is, do you Mr. Jones?"
Something is definitely happening. The fire season has lengthened, the hills are dry and dryer.  The climate is not what it once was. It's changed. To those who deny, the only response can be... It's the environment, stupid.
The week piled on more bad news.  Florida is incapable of having an election and the shocking news that one of my most memorable students took her life.
In Oregon we vote by mail.  It's so much easier and eliminates all the problems accompanying voting machines and human beings.  Sure, our ballots still have to be counted, but that's a minor chore compared to all the drama circling around a Florida election day.  Besides, it saves money.  One postage stamp rather than  maintenance to outdated machines.  Let's do it right, have a holiday and mail in a ballot.  Easy as you please.
Sure, it's been 30 years since Rachel was in my classroom, but when a person has a certain light in their eyes, an empathetic soul, and the intelligence to make the most of those qualities, they are easily recalled.
This loss was another attributable to chronic depression.  That there seems to be an epidemic of said disorder, there can be no doubt.  What swirls through my brain is the often repeated phrase, "but she seemed so happy, so centered, so passionate about living."  Like so many others, most of us who loved and cared for this young woman were dumbstruck.  How could this happen?  Didn't anybody know the distress she was suffering? Apparently not.  That's what hurts so much.
We can breathe wildfire smoke, we can see it, and we can all too often taste it.  No so with a person's emotional state.  It's easier to block pain than it is to stop the penetration of smoke and fire.
Both are like earthquakes.  They arrive suddenly and wreck havoc...unexpectedly.

Friday, November 9, 2018

Vice Versa

The sun came up a larger and brighter orange this morning.  November is nearing its midpoint and ash, not snow falls from above.  New California normal.

The President strangles the press openly now and the mass shootings occur on a regular basis.
We slide from synagogue to night club, from school to church.  And all the while the drum beats from Is this who we are? to yes, this is...who we are.  This is what we have become.
People always kid about getting their passports ready and moving to Canada.
They don't want us.
The time for kidding is over.
The Constitution is in a vice.
Two versions of the future pull at each end of the handle.
Civil War takes many forms; Civility only one.
The burning question is literally burning.

Sunday, October 28, 2018

Safe Man

I had a little problem with my front door lock the other day.  That's when I met Jack.  The key to one of the two locks on my front door would go in, but wouldn't turn.  Time to call a locksmith.  I phoned a recommended source and Jack appeared.
Jack can best be described as a journeyman.  He's a career professional and his career just might be a dying breed.  Everything is going digital and locks and safes are no exception.  But until that day, an old school locksmith like Jack will continue to make a good living.
Jack can get you in.  He can actually diagnose a problem from a fairly accurate description.
"This will take about 20 minutes," Jack said after looking at my problem.  He adjusted a few things and then returned my key.  It seems some small part had broken off on the top lock.  When his repair was complete, in about 15 minutes, Jack went on to explain that the top lock, the deadbolt, was in fine shape and really all one needs.  "That lock is your security," said Jack.
I got off easy only being charged a nominal fee for this home visit.  As Jack was writing out an invoice, we talked, or rather he talked and I listened.  I learned a few important things.  Jack can open just about anything.  "I'm really a safe man," he said.  "There isn't a safe I can't open."

I kept wondering how Jack got these skills and what kind of stories he had that would prove illuminating for fascinating.  But I didn't have much time, so I remained silent.
Jack had a riff about the difference between East coast and West coast doors.  He believes he can tell where a person is originally from just by the number of locks on their front door.  "Easterners have as many as 6 locks," he said.  "As if that really makes any difference.  I don't know, but that's been my experience, something I have noticed."
I don't know either, but now that I think of it, I wonder what it might mean.

Sunday, October 21, 2018

Tabloid Culture

When I first heard the term it struck me...this idea really fits.  "Tabloid culture"... we live in a tabloid culture.  All the signs were there.  One had only to hear those two words fall into place.
This was right around the time that reality TV shows were coming into vogue and tabloids, themselves were beginning to appear in grocery stores at the check-out counter.  And appear they did, in numerous forms.  Newspaper and magazine formats took the place of Time and Newsweek.

Of course, television stations were programming the likes of Jerry Springer and Maury Povich.  Who impregnated whom and who done him or her wrong shows were the new ratings toppers.
So what does this say about who we are as a people and how that relates to the current state of the union and those who are in the halls of power?  With all sensitivity to personal tastes and differences, to class, race, and gender...it says that we've come down a few pegs and are, perhaps, in free-fall from our once caring, tasteful, empathetic selves.
That the presidency of Donald J. Trump is both closely related to and profiting from this downturn in morality and decency, there can be no doubt.  The crowds at his rallies (what President has such rallies?) seem exactly like those at the Jerry Springer show.  They cheer at the insults and debasement of their fellow human beings.  This can't bode well.
There is a phrase that we hear with frequency.  It's some offshoot of "I've never seen this before" or "We've never seen anything like this."  It applies to how the values of those in power have sunk to a new low.  Those would be values like bullying and shaming, greed and avarice, violence and vengeance.   The evidence is overwhelming.  The 45th President has seemingly lifted the lid on a vast collective Id so that the laughter and revenge that spills out resembles the eerie sight of a bloodthirsty crowd at a lynching.  They chant, they yuk it up, they smile the ear to ear grin of the self-righteous, just like the folks in those people who have been forever immortalized in a photograph with hanging or smoldering bodies in the background.
If we follow the journalism metaphor to its logical end and ask what does the tabloid culture replace, the answer is obvious.  It replaces what some would call "our better angels" or the best impulses of humanity.  It is about honesty and art because the tabloid is concerned with exaggeration and the sensational. And mostly it is concerned with falsehood.  As the followers of the artificial sport of professional wrestling, the consumers of tabloid culture know deep within that it is all phony.  It is all staged, with members of the screen actors guild "acting" their part.  And like many supporters of the man who would be President, deep inside they know this but they just don't care.
The tabloid  is just too tempting.

Sunday, October 7, 2018

Divided House

I've been spending a fair amount of time lately reading Ron Chernow's massive new biography of General Ulysses S. Grant.  At over 900 pages, there is a lot of history here, and much of it quite interesting and thought-provoking.  It is also fascinating to read about this historical era when the country was so divided in a time when the country is so divided again.
Even though it seems like these divisions will never end or be resolved, they somehow dissipate for a time, only to surface decades later in an altered form.  Altered, yes, but not entirely different from their original content and intensity.

We live in a time of tremendous division.  Much of that division concerns the interpretation of what is loosely termed the direction of our country.  We have at the helm, a political newcomer who thrives on pandering to his base and overtly expressing his racism, sexism, and self-righteous indignation.  This is not unlike the world that Grant inhabited when Andrew Johnson was President of the U.S.  True, Johnson was not elected (he was the assassinated Lincoln's VP) but he entered the White House with a set of political beliefs and a moral compass far different from many in the country.  Johnson was impeached, though the Congress failed to oust him from the presidency. At one point Johnson even threatened to send troops to deal with his unruly Congress. Nevertheless, the stage was set for a war of partisan politics that seems to have persevered to this day.  Of course, the labels were not the same.  Lincoln and Grant were in the Republican party and the Democrats were the party of the "solid South."  That evolution is a fascinating story in itself, but best left for another time.
When I see the issues that divide this nation today, I wonder if they aren't another form of those that divided us 150 years ago.  Stripped to their essentials they involve human rights and the struggle between science and blind faith. Today's combatants are also often divided by education level and the ability to empathize with others.
Presidential historian Doris Kearns Goodwin, in promoting her latest book Presidential Leadership in Turbulent Times, speaks about the importance of empathy in a President that can unify the country.   Along with the ability to learn from past mistakes, these are two essential qualities to promote unity.  Grant certainly had those characteristics.  Unfortunately,  the current occupant of the White House has no humility, makes no mistakes.  This does not bode well for our current malaise.
Did they wonder then, as many do now if we aren't wired differently and thus condemned to repeat these struggles?  What are the characteristics of a hard-wired Republican or Democrat? Again, it appears that empathy plays a crucial role.  Perhaps that's why there is no such thing as a moderate or liberal Republican any more. One can only hope that the overt battles of our Civil War will not be repeated.  Anyone who has ever roamed a Civil War battlefield then and now knows the eerie feeling of a house divided against itself and the needless carnage that contributes to its fall.

Thursday, September 27, 2018

As I Recall

With the testimony of Dr. Blasey Ford before Congress, I'm sure many folks are trying to remember some of the high school parties they attended.  This is all the more difficult depending on the type and amount of beverages present.  I suspect social class plays a significant role too.
Some indisputable evidence that has come out of these hearings and their aftermath is that alcohol was a huge part of the equation back in the 1980s, the setting for this particular situation.
Frat parties and exclusive private boys schools clubs have always been about getting drunk.  The degree to which one imbibes seems to be the significant factor here.  But, inebriation is not the topic here, high school parties are.
Do you remember many high school parties you attended?  I do...at least a few.  They seem to revolve around events rather than what we drank.  Growing up in Southern California, many of those I recall revolved around a swimming pool.

As a high school junior, the memorable party was all about the Beatles.  It coincided with their "invasion" both into the country and the Top 40 list.  As I recall there was a time when they had a few songs in the top ten concurrently.  I remember the girls in my class knowing all the words and singing along as they danced with us boys.  They had their favorite Beatle too and through in the head shakes and falsetto parts as well.  There was also a party shortly before my mid-year February graduation that revolved around the UCLA Varsity basketball team playing the Freshman team in their traditional first home game of the season.  In those days (1965) we had an A semester and a B semester.  Baby Boomers entered the postwar school systems in such numbers that there were two graduations a year for decades afterward.  Anyway, in 1965 one particular Frosh player on the UCLA squad turned out to be legendary.  That was Lew Alcindor who later became Kareem Abdul Jabbar.  His presence and budding ability were so profound that the Freshman team beat the Varsity.  That information filled the room at one high school party.  One group of guys went into a bedroom and watched the game on a small black and white portable TV instead of eating dips/chips or flirting with the girls present.
And then there was the Dylan party.  "Bob Dylan is the greatest poet in this country right now,"  I recall saying something like that with as much arrogance as I could muster.  My mind was turning about Vietnam and some of the guys present on that evening had their lives either ended or permanently changed by that war.  There were other parties, but none stood out.  Most of us had a few close friends and we double-dated a lot.  Our parties were rather small get-togethers.  We weren't driven by alcohol, in fact drinking wasn't a priority in any way.  Simpler time?  Nerdier time?  No just a different time.

Sunday, September 23, 2018

Attraction

A couple of weeks ago I met a wonderful young man just about to begin his career in one of the more stressful helping professions.  Robbie is a sharp, well groomed, young professional who will soon be working with folks that have been diagnosed with all manner of mental illnesses.  Like so many young folks I meet, he had education debt, but also the energy and intellectual curiosity of someone who would make a great friend.
We met at a small dinner party organized around the fact that all attendees had helped one of our neighbors when he sustained an injury that left him on crutches for the better part of 6 months.
Since Robbie will soon be moving about an hour away, the little get together had even more meaning.  Some of my neighbors and I had helped our injured friend without ever meeting each other.  This dinner would remedy that.
The dinner went well.  We talked politics, film, art, and a smattering of neighborhood news.  Before the evening ended Robbie asked me about fly fishing.
"It's something I've always wanted to do," he said.  "I think I'm finally at the point in my life where I can make that dream happen."  I was thrilled.  I've been looking for a fishing buddy as I grow older and less mobile.  Could this stroke of luck really be happening?   Yes, it appeared so.

Over the next few days, I exchanged a few emails and text messages with Robbie.  He was realistic about the money he'd have to spend just to get the gear necessary to fish lakes and streams.  I volunteered to go with him to offer suggestions and evaluate the affordable gear available.  *Note, fly fishing can be expensive, but the good news is that the fish are not aware of what you are wearing or how expensive a rod/reel combination is in your hand.  We made a tentative plan to go shopping together, but I haven't heard from him for about a week.  Maybe he decided to wait until next year, that's certainly understandable since there are only about 2-3 weeks left in the season.  The snow will fall at the higher elevations where the trout swim in a matter of weeks.  I'm wondering, though, perhaps we are much more fascinated with doing something than actually doing it?  Just curious, but it's possible.   Now I know Robbie has more important things on his mind right now, but so far he fits into a pattern of folks I know who "always wanted to learn to fly fish."   And that's OK.  Maybe they know time-consuming and frustrating it can be.  Maybe all the gear, and getting it all in place is a deterrent too.  After all, getting in and out of those waders and wading shoes can leave a person breathless.  And have you ever tried to tie on a #18 fly...it's like threading a needle in a windstorm.
I think there just might be a happy ending to this story.  But Robbie, we only have a few weeks to give it a go.

Saturday, September 15, 2018

Fall Colors

Last week I made my annual pilgrimage to a small lake in Central Oregon.  I've been going there for about 10 years now every September.  It's great to be in this Cascades after Labor Day because the tourist population is gone and the weather usually holds up for another month. 
I had a goal.  There are some beautifully colored Brook trout in this lake and while I have no problem with catching (and releasing) a Rainbow trout, the opportunity to catch a Brookie with Fall spawning colors often eludes me.  I charged up the battery on the little digital camera that fits nicely into the pocket of my favorite fishing shirt and promptly forgot to put in in place the morning I drove the 18 miles up into the mountains from our rented guest house in Central Oregon.  The thought hit me just as I was negotiating the last mile of the horrible washboarded dirt road that dead ends at the lake.  What's the worse that could happen?  I kept asking myself.  I could catch (and release) a beautiful brook trout and have no photo.  Just the picture of those blue greens and red oranges...the pink and red spots...the muted aquas and blacks.  Just catching the fish would have to be enough.  So, as luck would have it,  that is precisely what happened. 

When you fly fish out of a float tube, as I do, hooking a fish is a real adrenaline rush.  So much of the time is peaceful and contemplative that that sudden tug on the line really gets the blood pumping.  Then the game begins.  Keep the line tight and try not to rush the retrieval.  Fly fishers often lose fish.  They come "unbuttoned."  So when the time comes to reach for the net and complete the entire process of catching a fish, you never know what is on the end of the line.  Even rather small fish can but a bend in the rod right before they come to the net. 
So...when those gorgeous colors surface of the water and I realized I'd fooled a nice brookie, I realized the worse case scenario had come to fruition.  Nice fish, no camera.  I carefully revived the fish and took an extra long look before he/she swam back to the depths of the lake. 
Maybe there is something of good fortune that things turned out this way.  I'm forced to keep the image alive through my imagination.  Fishermen of all stripes have a size problem.  As the years pass, the fish seem to grow in length.  I will try not to let that happen, because it's all about the colors, not the inches.  I will say this fish was between 12-14 inches long and had teeth!  Look at those colors in the graphics I've attached here, and know that they pop even more when you see them a foot or two from your face. 

Saturday, September 8, 2018

Levis Forever

There is a song called "Amanda" by Waylon Jennings that has a verse I've held onto for decades.  I think the song was written in the 1970s when I was in my 30s so it's easy to see the appeal because the aforementioned verse goes:
                                   It's a measure of people who don't understand
                                   The pleasures of life in a hillbilly band
                                   I got my first guitar when I was fourteen
                                   Well I finally made forty, still wearing jeans

I liked the fact that at 40, I was still wearing jeans.  Levis are my jean of choice.  I've had them in many colors, but the 501 blue jeans are the best, by far.  As a teacher, I could wear the brown or black 501s in the classroom and perhaps the blue on a Friday.  In my last month of full-time teaching I wore blue 501s every day.  Guess I wanted to put an exclamation point on the career. Today, it's no big deal, I've seen administrators walk the school halls in denim.  A few years back, it was just too casual.  My aim here is not to discuss the merits of jeans or when they are or are not appropriate, but rather their timelessness.
A few days ago I saw a social media post asking an interesting question.  Some 20 somethings were wondering what the little pocket on the front right pocket is for?  The best they could come up with is keys or cocaine.  It's coins, I informed them.  Then I felt the need to add that there was a time when parking meters took pennies.  A dime, two nickels, and a hand full of pennies would come in handy.  Easily accessible from that little pocket, those few coins would get you an hour or more on the meter. They are or used to be physically durable too.  Not so much anymore.
I sang this verse at 40, 50, 60 and now 70.
Today, when I buy a pair of Levis, they are often locked up in a case.  There are so many varieties, that I've got to wade through the 513s 505s and various other numbers to find the basic 501.  Then it's on to finding a salesperson to unlock the case and find my size.
If I were to edit the song referenced here, I'd ad the line..." still wearing jeans, in the same size.




Monday, August 27, 2018

Home Town

He first appeared sometime in the mid-70s.  We thought he might be a vet with PTSD.  In retrospect, he was one of the first homeless people I recall.  Before that we had the term "shopping bag ladies" and before people used the term bum freely.
In my childhood, everyone seemed to have a home.  Maybe not a house, but definitely a home.  Somewhere to go at the end of the day.  A safe place; a campsite.
We didn't know what to make of him because he was silent.  We wondered.  Was he broke? Hungry? Was he well?
When I picture him I see him in shades of brown and black.  He was a white guy, but living on the street can make you filthy in a hurry.  His clothing was tattered; his shoes barely had soles.  He walked...a lot.
People gave him a nickname: "the victim."
"I saw the victim today, " they'd say.  He was down on Telegraph and Ashby, making his way back to College Avenue.  He walked long stretches but by late afternoon always made his way back to the same intersection, or nearby.
Over the years, I gave him money a few times.  I wondered where he went at night too.  There was a door between two businesses on one of the main drags he frequented and I liked to think he opened it each evening and climbed a staircase to a small apartment.  Maybe he's doing some sort of psychological experiment and wants to collect data on how people react to his look, his needs, his presence in their neat and orderly world.  I liked to think that, but I always knew better.
In the decades that followed, scores and hoards of homeless have followed.  It's the visual reminder of the failure of our economic and health care system, isn't it?

Recently a major TV network aired a special on the homeless crisis in Los Angeles.  I thought I knew homelessness from my town, Portland, Or.  I thought I knew it from my many years in the San Francisco Bay Area.  Los Angeles is every other city times 10. It's been compared to Calcutta, India the scope is so large. Mile after mile of tents and encampments.  One observer has called it dystopic.  Aptly named.  Instead of "Night of the Living Dead" we have "Day of the Living Homeless."
We see the physical change in our urban areas all the time.  The constant encroachment of new apartments and condos, the reconfiguration of streets, the gentrification of communities that force the inhabitants on the periphery of their hometowns and replace barber shops with bridal shops, diners with brewpubs, grocers with baristas.
Maybe Armageddon will arrive not in the form of a massive earthquake, a foreign power, or global warming.  Maybe it's lining up right now on the fringes, in the bushes, on traffic islands and the space between railroad tracks.  They aren't victims and their numbers are growing.

Friday, August 24, 2018

Constitutional Crisis

Irwin Shaw said in his famous short story, "Tip of a Dead Jockey,"
"...In this age there comes a time when everyone finds that he is forced to gamble--and not for money, and not only at the seller's window. And when that time comes and you are not in the habit, and it does not amuse you, you are most likely to lose."
The President is a gambler. He's been forcing himself to sit at the table and go to the window more and more lately. There is no book of strategies, no Daily Racing Form for his pursuits. None is needed because this is an old tale.  The better adage might be, "A man should never gamble, more than he can stand to lose.  The President is obsessed with loyalty.  Trouble is that the concept has flipped on him.  The greater loyalty has become elevated to the Constitution and a sense of ethics.  The moral compass has turned.  Our Constitution works when tested.  Ethical people rather than the craven autocratic demigods catch more bees because they are the honey of human values.  It occurred to me recently that the Rosetta Stone will surface in his tax returns.  Those elusive documents that never seem to be available.  Now that immunity from prosecution has been extended to most everyone who possesses a key to the kingdom, the dark corridors of manipulative duplicity will feel the light.  The treasure will be there for the taking and the tiny man who does not feel the need to read books will fulfill the role of naked emperor.  If they weren't really loyal to you, Mr. President, what or who were they loyal to?  The idea that you might have some decency? The job you so graciously provided...for a fee?  A deeper sense of principle that is as alien to you as the ability to dissect complex issues.

The sociopath can easily lie.  Far easier for them than to tell the truth.  The President's lawyer said, "The truth is not truth." Think about that for a minute.  Not only are they not bothered by deliberately misleading, they are often unable to do the right thing...because it is not the right thing.  The President would rather collect the wages of the gamblers he panders to.  But the time has come for him to gamble.  He who boasted about being able to shoot someone on the streets of New York and get away with it.  He whose appointments often wait for the adversary to "bow down."  He who has his name on the "tremendous" erections he has blessed the world with...must now roll the dice, pick the winner, show his hand.  Get away with it?  No just get away.



Friday, August 17, 2018

Danger Ahead



He is a runawy truck ramp
    his face that dusty, rough, unnatural shade
like the unpaved, sandy surface
                   of the side road that leads up a sudden hill
to nowhere.

He is a RUNAWAY TRUCK RAMP,
            that side option that hopefully never gets used.
     It's unfinished, sudden, unlikely to stop the motion of an uncontrollable force.

This ramp paints an eerie feeling,
  It's impossible not to glance over when passing,
It conjures images of disaster.

He is a runaway truck ramp,
     possessed by the possibility of function
But nobody wants to travel that road.



Tuesday, August 7, 2018

An Alternate Universe

Everybody needs an alternate universe.  They come in handy, especially these days when the one we all inhabit becomes insufferable.  Right now, aside from the current political scene which features more lying and corruption charges than a B Western, we've got a major dose of disunity to deal with.  People can hardly talk to one another.  Even the talking heads of cable news are interrupting one another at an increased pace.  If I were to return to the classroom this fall, I'd revise my curriculum to include the methodology and strategies for having a discussion about politics.  First, you have to hear the person.  We all could use some revising on that topic.
Having an escape is both useful and necessary.  My alternate universe was once the world of horse racing.  That is to say, I used to inhabit that world.  I only do so virtually now.  But being there offered the opportunity to see, smell, hear and talk about equine athletes.  As a standard of beauty, the thoroughbred has few rivals.  I miss going out to the backstretch early in the morning.  Somehow, seeing the mist and steam waft off of a horse that has just worked 4 furlongs can be very calming. Alternate universes often have a mythology that accompanies them.  People like to believe that the inhabitants are the way they have been portrayed.  To be sure the race track has some colorful souls that more than reinforce the stereotypes that have become familiar to most.  But for everyone, there are two or three others who don't conform to the familiar.  In my 20 or so years of having access, I met people who would be the last person thought of to have an interest in thoroughbred horses.  That's one of the things that kept me interested.  For every hardboot trainer that spouted right-wing politics, I met a college-educated horseman with equal or superior ability.  Most people, with few exceptions, were friendly.  They were easy to engage in conversations about their passion: the horses themselves. But it is a closed world.  Strictly licensed and patrolled, the backstretch is a microcosm of the larger society that tucks it into a semi-rural corner of a big city.

I sacrificed that world to move to the northwest, where it's just not the same.  Oh, it could be, if I let it because a horse is a horse, especially if all you want to do is look at one. But the big tracks are in California, New York, Florida, and of course Kentucky.  As an ex-Californian, there was a time when my alternate universe contained the best of the best.  As a correspondent for The Bloodhorse magazine, I was privy to the inner world of the community that inhabits every race track.  For most of those folks, their sub-culture insulates them from the daily doings of the real world.  Not so everybody.  Just look at the names of some horses or the variety of people that attend the races.
Alternate universes can be manufactured.  We can find them everywhere, so substitutes abound.  My other one involves catching trout on the fly.  I know a few folks who put their entire existence into that endeavor.  I could never do that, so I guess that makes me a "weekend warrior."  Except that I never go fishing on the weekends.  In fact, this very month of August is becoming so hot and steamy that I might not attempt a fishing trip until the post-Labor Day days of September.

Friday, August 3, 2018

At First Glance

With August comes the dreaded phrase, "back to school."  Professional educators are always eager to return to the classroom and begin another year.  In fact, one of the most enjoyable things about teaching is the opportunity to begin again.  The job has a built-in reset.
We usually hear the phrase when it is attached to commercials about school clothing or school supplies.  Both of those rituals are usually a welcome experience.  Who doesn't like putting together a new notebook and re-stocking one's stash of paper clips, staples, binder paper, and perhaps a couple of new items that will soon become either poor choices or unnecessary.
In my first decade in the classroom, I looked forward to buying a few new shirts and a couple pairs of pants destined to occupy that spot in the closet for "school clothes."
Along with the familiar ads reminding us that the 2018-19 school year is almost upon us has come something new.  Not first time new, but in the last few years new.  In my town we have a huge
school supply drive, reminding us that many children are often forced to return to their local school inadequately supplied for the year ahead.  It's well-meaning.  But it begs an important question.  Why are so many students (presumably public school students) unable to purchase their own school supplies?  And of course, what does this say about our culture and country?

My intention here is not to diminish a charitable effort or to question anybody's intent.  It just seems to me that an equal amount of effort thrown in the direction of an equitable distribution of wealth, or a fair minimum wage, might be even more desirable.
My guess is that these supply drives are intended for public school kids.  Though, these days with the propensity and complexity of charter schools and academies on the scene, one wonders.  Do we supply kids who choose to stay at home and commit to online education as well.  By the way, one of my favorite ads for this latest version of removing your children from having to share their education with other people's children features a young scholar spouting the line, "It's public school...at home."  No it isn't.  It's you at home and other kids in public school.
School supply drives are unfortunately needed, so I hope they live long and prosper.  I'd just like to hear some mention of why they seem to be so necessary in, arguably, the richest country in the world.

Monday, July 23, 2018

Twos or Tens

A good number of folks I know are having a horrible year, so far.  This is happening just when some of us thought that after last year, things were bound to improve.  Not so.  So far some of the things people are dealing with run the gamut from small, bothersome, irritations, to the biggest stressors of all.  In the space of a couple of weeks, I've heard stories about jobs suddenly ending, cars being hit while parked, and then fixed, and then hit again, to the big illnesses like inoperable tumors and recurring cancer diagnoses.
All this and the planet is imploding.  Don't forget that.  As a friend of mine likes to say, "Is it a two or a ten?"
A little of both, I'd say.  I think the thing to be careful of, is don't let a two become a ten.  Easier said, sometimes.
We're having a week of uncharacteristically hot weather here in the Pacific Northwest and that seems to aggravate everything.  Decision-making comes slowly. Motivation even slower.  Dog days, to be sure, but nothing we haven't seen before.
It got me thinking, though, about what are all the twos and tens in my own reality right now.  My challenge, of course, is to stay grounded in each day.  Enjoy the mystery and allow it to happen.  Now before this scrambles off into a series of Zen affirmations, let's get down to specifics.
How do we make meaning out of all these little irritations that constantly find their way into our busy lives?  Isn't that what we do, or are supposed to do?   Take the mundane and extract all the mythology that helps to explain our plight.

I've been reading a remarkable book, lately.  It's called Sapiens and was written by Yuval Noah Harari.  Subtitled, a Brief History of Humankind, it's a masterful look at our time on Earth.  Sort of biology meets philosophy meets science meets evolution...Mr. Harari offers a comprehensive overview of our history and thinking and accomplishments on this planet.  One of the most fascinating things he does is to offer a biological interpretation of the Declaration of Independence.  Since nobody has a "creator,' he suggests, then we can't have all been "created equal."  The real insight comes when we realize that we have collectively chosen to buy into a belief system that offers hope, contentment, and a plan for co-existence. Just look at the faith we place in the concept of money.  It really only is paper, but our faith that it will be backed with goods and services keeps us all afloat. That really is quite an accomplishment. Set this against a background of various eras, empires, and ages and you have the idea.  This is the one book I'd recommend for everyone at a particular time in their lives.  How's that for wishful thinking? Could all people be expected to read a book that offers viable explanations for some of life's mysteries?  But it seems to me that we all deserve at least a chance to bring some meaning to these massive questions that everyone seems to have asked at one time or another. Imagine, if we all had Harari's basic understanding of how we think and what we've become, so many tens might end up twos.

Monday, July 16, 2018

Perfect Drift

Seems like I've moved...again.  Not physically, but in my mind.  I now reside at the intersection of Today and Someday.  When those two streets intersect, it's a collision, of sorts.  It's the realization that most, if not all, your Somedays now reside under the heading of Today.  That is, you have to make them happen today because Someday just got smaller in a big way.
I was always in my head a lot as a child.  Whether raking leaves, mowing a lawn or walking home from school, I thought mostly of things that might come to be, someday.  The wonderful meditation of expectation was usually what preoccupied me.  It's not a bad thing.  In fact, I recently read where people who have something to look forward to are usually more content than those who don't.  I find real wisdom in that.
But there is another kind of expectation that isn't so useful.  As a child, my elementary school teachers often told my parents (it was usually my mother) that I seemed to always be "ahead of myself."  The implication was if I could just slow down a little, I'd make fewer mistakes and that my efforts would be even more rewarding.

As I think back on this, I realize that my old friend anxiety probably played a significant role in my consciousness.  Impulsive...yes, that's me, certainly, but I have no recollection of rushing through things for any reason.  Perhaps I operate on a higher cruising speed than many?  Perhaps I'm comfortable moving quickly through reading material.  No, that can't be it, because I pride myself in reading slower than many folks.  I like to take my time and savor sentences and words and language.
There is no doubt about the wisdom of slowing down.  As I age, I'm constantly aware of slowing myself down.  I think, perhaps, learning to fly fish has helped in that department.  Making a choice to take one's time is sometimes part of the beauty of that passion of mine.  I recall one time on a beautiful creek in Northern California I was trying to cast a fly in a difficult spot.  I wanted it to drift slowly at just the right angle near a rock wall on the other side of the stream.  In order to make the cast, I had to avoid some overhanging branches.  After a few tries, the inevitable happened and I was rewarded with the fly snagged on the upper leaves of the overhanging tree.  On closer inspection, there was a nice snarl of tippet to untangle as well.  (Tippet is the fine line at the end of the leader)  I wanted to land that fly on just the right path more than I wanted to cut that line so I painstakingly unwound that snag, retrieved that fly, re-rigged my line and remained in position until I was rewarded with a beautiful rainbow trout who just happened to be hanging out in the pool below that rock wall.  The real victory for me that day was not the fish, who, I might add, was released unharmed.  The win was over the old me who wouldn't have taken the time to show it all down and re-set.
I've been mindful of that experience and I know we don't always get rewarded on the spot when we take the time to re-focus.
Now that Somedays are turning into Todays I try to enjoy the moment and let whatever I'm doing or experiencing unfurl before me as it will.

Sunday, July 1, 2018

Timing

I've been spending some time with my 93-year-old mother-in-law.  As you might imagine, that, in itself, has its challenges.  But apart from the physical limitations of sight and hearing, the mental ones of technology and age, she does remarkably well at navigating the massive social change that surrounds us all.
Betsy is a liberal.  A classic liberal.  She lives in Berkeley, California, and in many ways epitomizes the world-view of what that is supposed to mean.  She's lived through world war, and at least 15 Presidential terms, notwithstanding the fact that FDR was elected 4 times.
This past weekend, as luck would have it,  most of the family went in different directions and the two of us remained to spend some time together.
We watched some films, we took a hike around a local lake at one of the regional parks that dot the East Bay hills, and then settled in one evening to watch a political commentator on cable news.  Not surprising, the program soon turned to the recent news that the Supreme Court was about to receive a new member since Justice Kennedy announced his impending retirement.

It was not long afterward that the conversation before us turned to the possibility of Roe v. Wade being overturned, given the present political climate.  Many such discussions seem to be covering the talk show landscape these dates.  Now my mother-in-law was married to a man who could best be described as a real pioneer in women's reproductive rights.  A former OB-GYN, he devoted the second half of his life to public health and worked in various places on various continents.  I know her mind on this issue, but the renewed fervor of the issue lately has left us all thinking.  In one of those rare moments when a complex issue becomes strikingly clear the following conversation took place:

Me: Abortion and a woman's right to choose has become the great moral issue of our time.  It's not unlike slavery was 150 years ago.
She: Yes it has.  But I have a question for you.
Me: What's your question?
She:  Why do these men think it's their decision to make?
Me:  Well,  it's a political decision, and it's about power, political power, isn't it?
Suddenly a thought occurred to me.
Cue celestial music...
This entire issue became reduced to an absurdity; the complexity of the arguments seemed to vanish under the realization that any institution that has men making decisions for and about women and their bodies is ludicrous and an anachronism.
Now maybe it just seemed that way to me because I am a man.  But I can only speak from my own experience and report what I perceived at that moment.  So what? So what now?
I'm ready to put my body on the line.  Time's Up.

Saturday, June 30, 2018

People Get Ready

There is an adage that has served me well whenever I find myself faced with a thought dilemma.  The kind of conundrum that has me wondering about the consequences of an important decision or asking the question, "How can I begin to make sense of this?"
What I do is follow some simple advice: what do the finest minds, in your view, have to say about this?  Seek out the ideas of those you respect the most and try to find out what their perspectives teach you.
We all know that there is a palpable fear running through this country right now?  Despite our attempts at unity, we are a hugely divided nation that seems to be resting on the brink of disaster.  All the signs are there.  Things are not going well.  Life is tough and tougher.  If ever there were to be a second Civil in this country, this is the time.
I don't need to run down the list of circumstances and realities, the improbable cast of characters.  The daily stream of violence and savagery in all forms that presents itself wherever we go.  What I do need to do is pass along some thoughts from one of those brilliant thinkers we still possess.
In a new article, Chris Hedges has outlined his take on America 2018 and how we can turn around this fragile mess we're in if we so desire.
https://www.commondreams.org/views/2018/05/21/coming-collapse
Hedges uses the term inverted totalitarianism  (and credits its author) to highlight why no one particular party is to blame, but rather it is the system we often defend that needs replacing.  I'll reference the article, and document it here, but I'm not going any further because it is one particular thought contained therein that has captured my attention.
We all know that the media is out of control, but it's hard to criticize it sometimes because it is under attack by the current administration.  And, after all, one of the hallmarks Fascism is to attack and destroy a free press.  Yet, the media as it exists today often supports unintended consequences.  As Hedges notes,
"It drones on and on and on about empty topics such as Russian meddling and a payoff to a porn actress that have nothing to do with the daily hell that, for many defines life in America.  It refuses to critique or investigate the abuses by corporate power, which has destroyed our democracy and economy and orchestrated the largest transfer of wealth upward in American history."
Few would dispute these claims.
But what resonates most in all this with me is what the American people are willing to do about that "daily hell" that seems to have defined their lives.
Group catharsis coming?

Tuesday, June 26, 2018

Sitting

I'm in a dream.  But I'm not.  It's always that way when I return to the Bay Area and try to negotiate my old, once familiar haunts.  The roads have changed; they are configured differently in many places.  Just going from one to another confronts me with choices and risks I didn't know I had.  Try to enjoy the moment I keep telling myself.
Enjoyment comes in the form of finding a shady place with a plastic chair and a cement shelf on which to rest my cup of Peet's coffee.  Street musicians have upped their game here.  What would pass for a "homeless" man in some cities has a sophisticated sound system that sends the background music to everyone from Marvin Gaye to Sinatra wafting over the cloudless sky.  He sings his heart out.  A real latter-day Mel Torme, he forms the backdrop for aging skateboarders, all manner of I-Phone fiddlers, and those who run errands or walk dogs or simply rush around the gentrified park they inhabit.

We are listening to his music without choice in the matter.  This is Berkeley, after all.  He is free to serenade with the blend of power saws, traffic, an occasional train whistle, and a barking dog.
He is flying to the moon now and playing among the stars as I try to recall how many businesses here on 4th St. are no longer here this year.
The umbrellaed tables are full with more people talking into devices than real faces.
Everything is in transition.  People are dressed for a cool morning and a warm day all at once.
Trucks back up with their repeating warning beeps punctuating the troubadour's latest offering.  He's now left his heart in SanFrancisco.  The nerve! Taking on Tony Bennet in front of God and everyone.
Suddenly, I realize I've taken my place among the ranks of the retired.
Being able to sip coffee and get a free concert is not to be taken lightly.  I no longer wheel and deal, but rather heal and feel.
It occurs to me too, that by the end of one week in my forgotten neighborhood, it would all come tumbling back.  At least enough to get around easily.

Thursday, June 14, 2018

Everybody's Happy??

The two ideas in one sentence are problematic, to say the least.  Like good and evil, or elation and depression, there is a relationship.  But honestly, how does the sound of a "Reparations Happy Hour" sound to you?
This is the recent brainchild of some political activists in Portland.  Portland, Or you may recall, is the place that was once called, "where 20 somethings go to retire."  But, in reality, in Portland, all things are possible.

The idea was simple.  You ask white folks to contribute $10. and then stage a Happy Hour for black folks where they can get together knowing that enough, or maybe some... white people care about recognizing the evils and far-reaching consequences of slavery on the black community to want to do something other than talk about the idea.
Sounds preposterous, sounds amiss, or even ridiculous, yet this is exactly what came about recently in "the city that cares."*
It hasn't been an overwhelming success but these things take time, don't they?  We'll see; after all, it is doing something more than just talking about the idea.  And...it is an idea that has been around for decades.
One would think that if the U.S. government were really in earnest about some sort of financial compensation for the relatives of those were held in bondage, then something would have been done.
All these years later that Reconstruction proposal of "40 acres and a mule" looks pretty good.  But it never happened and don't hold your breath.
As bizarre and inadequate as the reparations happy hour concept is and sounds, one could argue that at least it gets folks talking.  And talk not too expensive.
Reparations for something as horrendous and far-reaching as the "peculiar institution" extend far into the trillions of dollars.  Then there is all the "it wasn't me or my generation" rhetoric you have to wade through. It's daunting, but what isn't as impossible is a group of folks making a small contribution and extending a drink and a bite to eat to a group of other folks.
I'm still processing this one.  bout the only ting, I can say for sure is that Portland, you never disappoint.

Wednesday, June 6, 2018

1968

50 years ago it was 1968.  Arguably one of the most difficult years for this young nation, 1968 had the feeling of a malaise settling over the country.  Some would say it is not uncommon to what people are feeling today with the likes of Donald Trump in the White House.
In 1968 I was 21, and completing my Junior year in college.  On that June Tuesday in '68 when Californians went to the polls, I had a final exam in a class on political philosophy.  I wrote my Blue Book exam on the theories expressed in a book called The Radical Liberal. The author was my professor at UCLA that year, Arnold S. Kaufmann.  It was all so contemporary.

Comparing the ideas of Eugene McCarthy and Robert Kennedy was rewarding, even for a 3- hour exam.  What was far less worthwhile was the fact that I went home only to watch the assassination of Robert Kennedy shortly after he was declared the winner of the California primary.
I was in McCarthy's camp prior to that day.  But RFK was getting to me, particularly because he was outspoken on Civil Rights and social justice issues beyond the morality of the Vietnam War seemed to matter more to him.  In an instant, it all became irrelevant.  We would not have another Kennedy in the White House, at least not in that year.
Much like today, people were struggling to separate their feelings for their country from their feelings for their government.  I'd seen Robert Kennedy earlier that year as he spoke on the campus of Cal State, Northridge.  Even then, more radical members of the crowd were shouting at him, urging him to "open up the archives" insinuating that there was much to learn about the narrative that passed for the Warren Commission's conclusions about who killed his brother John. With Bobby that day was an entourage that included actor Peter Lawford (married to his sister) and pro football player Roosevelt Grier, the massive NY Giant who endorsed RFK because of his record on Civil Rights.   A month later the traveling roadshow that was his campaign was relegated to history.
The malaise deepened.  The "downer" was palpable. In two months the fight was literally taken to the streets and the whole world watched as the status quo paved the way for a Nixon comeback.
So here I sit, 50 years onward and the malaise has returned.

Tuesday, May 29, 2018

Re-inventing the Self

I'm staring straight into the face of it again.  It seems to come around every few years during this very different time of life. This time with no full-time employment. Self-reinvention.  One of the benefits of living in the US of A is that we enjoy this luxury.  It often can be stimulating and risky. Som who will I be when I am no longer the person that did these things for so many years.  Who will I be when I haven't a clue what I'll be doing.  Or do I?
Every time I ask the question, the answer is always the same.  Wait and see.
When we lose the structure and routine we've complained about for so long we feel compelled to create a substitute.  For good reason.  Do you know how easy it is to waste a day?  Days?  even a year? Define waste.
OK, waste, as in accomplishing nothing.

I belong to the melting ice school of thought.  As Arthur Miller once noted, we are all trying to "write our name on a cake of ice on a hot July day."  No really.  We just do it in different ways.  In fact, just my writing this page, I'm participating.  It's a simple metaphor.  I write a sentence. Then another one follows.  And another.  I see where it goes.  That's the way to live life in the moment.  Give yourself the time and will to simply experience what will be as it will be.  Unless you are physically ill or incapable of functioning, you really have no complaint with anything.  Sounds too simplistic, but it requires action.  Requires you to become more than you currently are.  That can't be bad.
I suppose that there will soon be some new technology for self-reinvention.  Why not, we've got something for everything else.  Some sci-fi stories and TV shows are already exploring the many faces of transferring thoughts from one brain to another.  How to capture what's inside our heads without losing the poignancy or originality of a thought is quite fascinating.  Like this cartoon I saw earlier today.
If I had a built-in tape recorder or should I now say voice recorder to capture every thought-possibility that rolls through my brain then I'd be rich in thought.  I'd probably have a book or two of some of the best poems, short stories and short essays that I'm capable of producing.  No lament here.  The answer is to just do it myself.

Tuesday, May 22, 2018

In and Out of History

The boys were very well-behaved despite the constant rain and sticky mud.  When the 2018 version of the Preakness was over, there were no real surprises, but a glimmer of what is yet to come.  Justify continued his perfect streak and set himself up perfectly for a Triple Crown attempt, but whether or not his performance was impressive, or at least as impressive as the previous ones, remains in doubt.

That will set up the Belmont perfectly with an air of doubt and the chance to pull an upset.  It's possible that Justify could fall short because of the distance of the race and because the Triple Crown trail is paved with thorns and remains a grueling ordeal.
I'm reminded how easily names and places fall in and out of history.  Some wither on the brink and some enter cemented in place.  Even a 1200 pound thoroughbred who consistently displays all the speed and stamina of a true champion can appear vulnerable in the eyes of the knowing.
The fragility of something perceived to be strong and everlasting was much in evidence in a number of ways this week.  So it was with the announcement that Marylhurst University is closing.
Marylhurst is the small private Catholic university at which I have worked part-time for the last 10 years.  The fact that it is small, private and Catholic means nothing to me.  The fact that it values diversity, began a Masters in Teaching program devoted to social justice and equity in education, means everything.  I've been fortunate to work with beginning teachers going through that program for the last decade and now, mostly because of low enrollment, the school will be forced to close.  There will be much sadness, but those who will find themselves suddenly out of a job or a program should land on their feet.  At least a half-dozen other universities and colleges, some in the same financial shape, will be more than happy to pick up these students.  Many of the faculty will continue their work at other institutions.  In a few years, it'll all be remembered fondly.  I hope.  For now, we all do well to remember that the impermanence of everything constantly stalks our lives.  As for myself, I'm going to retire...again.  At least I can afford to take some time off and do some self-reinvention.  I was indecisive about how long I wanted to stay involved in public education and now the decision has been made for me.  Doors and windows.  The future is uncertain, but like the Belmont Stakes coming up in a few weeks, the possibility and potential for something good loom large in the homestretch.

Tuesday, May 15, 2018

Preak-ish

Every time a Kentucky Derby winner runs in the Preakness, which is almost every year, we have the potential for a Triple Crown winner.  So it will be on Saturday as Justify continues to carve his name into the tree of history at Pimlico.
Being the oldest racetrack in the nation, save Saratoga, Pimlico will dust off its ancient grounds, polish the silver, and once again host the eye of the nation and the best 3-year olds currently in training.

Once again, too, the naysayers and East/West bias holders will spit out their theories and reinforce the mythology about the tight turns Pimlico seems to have.  They'll take a stand against Justify, the favorite, and pontificate till their ears turn red.  Probably, Justify will romp easily and prove that the Belmont is the true test of a 3-year-old champion.  We've seen this so many times that it's predictable.
Still, with the strong undercard, the buzz in the air and the thousands all decked out for a special day, it'll be fun all day.  I say this all right now because you have to say it a few days before the race to have any credibility.  Yet, there are so many variables in horse racing, the cliches that "anything can happen" and "that's why they run the race," will put in an appearance or two as well.
I recall a trip to Baltimore that saw me find my way to Pimlico about 20 years ago.  It was a week before the Preakness and I'd come to Baltimore to attend a conference on teacher research.  The organization that sent me urged me to arrive a couple of days before the conference so I could see a bit of Baltimore.  I walked the inner harbor, cracked some crab with a few colleagues and then one bright Thursday morning, figured out how I might get out to Pimlico on public transit.
A very gregarious homeless person tutored me in how the light rail system worked.  Tickets were dispensed by a machine that only dispensed Susan B. Anthony dollar coins.  Having only a $20. bill, I now had a round trip ticket to the station nearest to Pimlico and about 12 dollar coins to spare.  I gave a few Susans to my "guide," who much to my relief accurately told me what station to exit and exited the train himself,  before my stop.
I was to catch a bus to Pimlico from the railway station, but nobody knew which number bus.
Problem easily solved when I just followed 3 elderly gentlemen who were discussing the Racing Form spread out in front of them at the bus stop.  Within minutes, I was at Pimlico.
Like many historical sites, it seemed smaller than it appeared in pictures and photos.  I recall Mt. Rushmore did too.

But there is a quality about a racetrack that holds true any place you go.  They are usually laid out similarly, so you have the phenomena of feeling at home almost instantly.  I fund the saddling paddock, the clubhouse, the bet/cash windows, and the obvious places for restrooms and where the programs and Racing Forms are sold.  I like to watch races from various locations, so at a venue I'm exploring for the first time, I am constantly moving.  Each race is a separate puzzle with a cast of characters both human and equine.
My day at Pimlico was fun but not really one of the more memorable ones I've had at a track for the first time.  Nevertheless, when Justify steps on the historical dirt of Pimlico and the band strikes "Maryland My Maryland," I'll remember Pimlico, and toast the Preakness winner and Susan B. Anthony simultaneously.

Wednesday, April 25, 2018

Oh A Sis


I saw her by chance
     after 30 years
the SoCal dream glinting in their eyes,
the perspective of the photo
had the best interpretation
     the best reminder
two palm trees growing
     out of their heads
 

Tuesday, April 24, 2018

Black and White Spaces

April 2018
Ashland, Oregon

On this warm, windy Spring day I wondered a mile or so from the downtown section of Ashland, Oregon and found myself on the campus of Southern Oregon University.
Finding the Student Union was simple and here I sit with a fresh cup of coffee in a space where I am easily, save one, the oldest person.  I found a bathroom, a bookstore, and an internet connection with little or no effort as well.
I feel safe in this space even though I'm just passing through.  College campuses seem particularly interested in the concept of safe spaces these days and in the wake of a recent incident at Starbucks in Philadelphia some folks are unabashedly conscious of how they are being perceived by others and worry about whether to buy something or if it's even OK to wait for someone you are meeting if you don't seem busy and like you belong.
Do we want a culture of coffee shops where it's acceptable to spend a few hours taking your time?  I think so.  People work from these spaces; they spend money and extend their effort in the company of like-minded folks.

Of all the comments and consequences of two black men being arrested in a Starbucks for waiting, the most compelling commentary I've read concerns black people in white spaces.  While this is nothing new for black folks, it's alien to many white people, who assume they are safe by default.  And what exactly do we mean by safe?
So while Starbucks forgoes profit for a day and tries to make its workforce more racially sensitive, perhaps what might be more productive is to give its white employees a sense of being white in a black space.  Rather than work on a forced sense of understanding, get at the emotions behind feeling like "the other."
My experience is a bit atypical in that department because I once taught an ethnic studies program to high school students who were predominately black or in a few cases all black.  That's rare, and rightfully questioned, but it yielded an unforgettable experience.  Let me add that I was the most qualified person at the time.  But going further I did have a few other experiences where I was definitely a white person in a black space.
The first time I recall came in a small neighborhood bar in New Orleans.  While a VISTA Volunteer in 1969, some of my fellow VISTA colleagues and I traveled from Houston, Texas to New Orleans to visit some Louisiana colleagues in a section called Gert Town.  This was one of those little poverty pockets tucked inside the inner city.  At one point we entered a small tavern in this all-black neighborhood and sat at a table near the jukebox.  One of the local VISTAS knew a few folks there and within minutes two things happened.  One was a gentleman bought a pint of something (it was dark in there) and brought it to our table.  In these small bars, it was not uncommon for patrons to purchase liquor at the counter and bring it to a table.  It was less expensive that way.  We chatted with our new friend and welcomed his gesture of hospitality.  He left our table shortly afterward and that's when the second thing happened.  The place got back to normal.  People danced, they drank, and they laughed and talked.  We were an anomaly, to be sure, but the page quickly turned.  We left the bar and went back to the place across the street where we were staying.  That was about 1:00.  By 2:30, the place emptied rapidly as a jealous woman attempted to "cut" her rival before leaving herself.  Within an hour all was quiet on the homefront and another Saturday night in Gert Town was in the books.
The other experience for me came when I attended a party in Oakland about 10 years later.  My department hired a young African-American teacher and she invited everyone to a party at her home. There were about 50 people jammed into that small two bedroom apartment, but the vibe was wonderful.  The late 70s offered great dance music and these folks were intent on dancing the night away.  By midnight I realized that other department members had left and I was the only white person there.  That realization brought a surprising array of emotions with it.  Most notably, it was something I'd never experienced. Did I belong?  Was I vulnerable?  Did my presence make anyone uncomfortable?  I remember standing around after that and watching people dance.  I must have been moving to the music in some way because a woman came up to me and said," I know you want to get out there, so c'mon."  We danced a few dances and then she went into another room.  Shortly thereafter I had an interesting conversation with a man who was a detective, and then I left.  Did I belong?  Probably.  Was it a safe space for me? Definitely, my dance partner saw to that.
The takeaway for me was that I had experienced something new, a little unsettling, and most rewarding.  Most important of all, this was not an everyday experience.  I had the luxury of going years instead of hours where those emotions might resurface.  My experiences are unique to the time and place.  What I do know for sure is that we remember and reflect on our experiences through our emotions much better than through contrived experiences.  Also, we are still working on the notion of "our spaces."





Not Like They Used To

  With some help from friend Jory Aronson, a great mandolin player, here is an up dated version of my "Levi Song."   To the tune o...